“You okay?” she asks.
“Fine,” I say, but my voice comes out flat.
She watches me a beat longer, like she’s weighing whether to push, then goes back to work.
I keep my eyes on her anyway. I can’t help it. That’s the thing about Lyla — she’s been in my head for years, and no amount of pretending otherwise has ever worked. Seeing her here, in this house, working beside me… it’s a hell of a lot harder to keep my distance than I thought it’d be.
The rhythm of hammer and nails should be enough to drown it out, but the past has a way of getting loud when you don’t want it to.
I keep seeing Lyla at sixteen — all sharp elbows and fire in her eyes, marching across the street with a beat-up first aid kit after I wrecked my bike in the Lawson driveway. I told her I was fine, but she sat me down on the curb anyway, muttering under her breath about idiots and stubborn boys while she cleaned the gravel out of my knee.
She’s still that girl, deep down. Feisty. Fierce. Always ready to throw herself into the mess to fix it. Which is why Colton going near her makes my blood run hot — because I know he’ll use that against her if it gets him what he wants.
My mind drifts further back. Aaron and I, thick as thieves, building half-finished skate ramps in the backyard, taking turns getting yelled at by our parents. The three of us — me, Aaron, and Lyla — sprawled out on the Hart family’s living room floor, watching movies until we passed out.
And then… the night. The rain. The way everything seemed to break in a single hour.
I stop, the memory pressing in too hard, and reach for another length of molding. I don’t let myself go there — not fully. Not now. Not when the smell of sawdust and salt air can still take me right back to that moment.
Colton told her to ask me about that night. I can feel it in my gut. And the truth is… I don’t know if I could give her an answer that wouldn’t make her look at me differently.
I look over at her again. She’s still working, unaware of the storm building in my head.
The silence between hammer strikes stretches too long. She sets her sandpaper down, brushing sawdust from her palms, and looks over at me.
“You want to take a break?” she asks.
I arch a brow. “You tired already?”
Her mouth quirks. “No. But you’re working like someone who skipped breakfast, and I don’t want to be responsible for you passing out mid–crown molding.”
I glance at the clock. She’s not wrong — it’s later than I thought.
She picks up her jacket from the chair. “Come on. My place. I’ll make something. Or we can raid the fridge if you don’t trust my cooking.”
I think about saying no — about telling her we should push through and finish this section — but the truth is, I don’t want to be in this house right now. Not after seeing Colton in here. Not with all the ghosts it stirs up.
“Yeah,” I say, setting my hammer on the counter. “Lunch sounds good.”
Her place is just across the street, but I still fall into step beside her, hands shoved in my jacket pockets. She doesn’t say anything until we’re halfway up her walkway.
“You’ve been quiet,” she says, glancing at me.
“Been thinking,” I admit.
“About Colton?”
“About a lot of things.”
She doesn’t push, just unlocks the door and leads the way inside. The air smells faintly of coffee and something floral — her shampoo, maybe. It’s a sharp contrast to the dust and varnish clinging to my skin.
For the first time since this morning, I feel my shoulders start to loosen.
Her kitchen is warm, sunlight spilling through the small window over the sink. She shrugs off her jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair, then moves easily through the space like she’s done a thousand times — pulling bread from the counter, cheese from the fridge, heating a skillet.
I lean against the doorframe, watching her. She doesn’t notice at first — or maybe she does and just pretends she doesn’t.
“You’re really making grilled cheese?” I ask.
